


Time and Time Again

by vietbluefic



Category: Chinese Mythology, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Afterlife, Ancient China, Ancient History, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Bound feet, Character Death, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Dark Past, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams of Hell, Footbinding, Gen, Ghosts, Historical Fantasy, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Humanity, Hungry Ghost Festival, Immortality, Introspection, Literary References & Allusions, Lucid Dreaming, Melancholy, Memories, Mortality, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythology References, Poetry, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Reflection, Spirit World, Spirits, Spiritual, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4419191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vietbluefic/pseuds/vietbluefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams are torment for Yao, reliving the horrors of his long and ancient past: but this one is different. An odd encounter with a butterfly unfolds into a brief journey, in which hungry ghosts roam unwanted and forgotten, a chat with the underworld Emperor reflects on immortality, and a game of <i>wéiqí</i> never ends. Cloistered beauties hide behind silken blinds, sweat-lathered horses storm a battlefield, a million voices across all history vanish in a plume of smoke.</p><p>Ah, but how true it is that time is like a river — flowing by, never to return.</p><p>千里之行, 始于足下 <i>Qiān lǐ zhī xíng, shǐ yú zú xià</i>. (A thousand-<i>li</i> journey begins with a first step.) And so it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 蝴蝶  "Butterfly"

When Yao opens his eyes, he is at first still, unsure whether it is truly a dream or not. Bright sunlight grazes his skin with warm kisses; flowers in every shade nature knows of unfurl around him. Their sweet perfumes brush against his face, like willow-fingered hands. Yao curls his fingers into fists, whereupon they stroke the cool stone surface of the bench he sits on. Wind rustles the green-leafed bushes. Grass sways against his ankles and bring with it the budding aroma of spring. Everywhere he glances it is soft and peaceful and vivid.

Well. This is quite odd, considering how he very much remembers laying down to bed, and listening to the sound of cars rumbling by outside the open window before he fell asleep. The memory of watching the curtains billow in a cool night breeze is still fresh on his mind, as well. Yao peers around; it seems to be early noon here, or otherwise just particularly sunny. The air smells strange to him: a mingling of flowers and dust and age.

He glances down. _Ah._ His eyes widen when he sees that his sleeping robes have vanished, replaced by clothes from an era long past. Scarlet and violet brocades clothe his body, heavy with familiarity and decor. A gold amulet strung with green threads dangles from his waist.

Memories: the white dust of poison rimming wine cups. Embroidered fabrics hanging off teakwood walls. Cinnabar pillars, inlaid with jade. The yellow dragon-robes of an incompetent Emperor. Ink spilling, staining paper scrolls like black blood. Flowers, too — in spring, summer, autumn, winter; endless cycles of moons and suns and blossoms and leaves.

“So…this is what they call 一場春夢 _yī chǎng chūn mèng_ (an episode of a spring dream), is it?” Yao murmurs to himself, then rises to his feet. His eyebrows lift when he finds that the dream remains solid around him, rather than wavering or dissolving as he had expected. “Or perhaps, my spirit merely wanders at this moment…”

Although in all honesty, this does not seem to be any place he’d imagine his soul would roam to. An ancient garden, blooming full and bright, a blue-tile-roof arched gate to the north. Magnolias open creamy petals towards him, camellias uncurl like daubs of blood on the deep green brush. Yao takes a step forward to find a white-stone path underfoot; he exhales, and it emerges as a sigh.

“ _Aiyaa_ … Whatever this place is, it is certainly beautiful… So beautiful it’s surreal,” he remarks. There is a tangibility to his surroundings, too, which is only reinforced as he brushes his hand over the paper-soft blossoms. But then again, Yao’s dreams tend to be so. And it is for that reason as well that Yao hates to dream.

They are always too real for him, his subconscious unearthing the sensations and memories of five thousand years. He relives them all: tasting the overpowering flavor of distilled wine, the stench and slosh of blood pouring over his hands, finding sheathes for blades in the chests of emperors, tender agony as crippling poison draws through his veins.

Rarely are Yao’s dreams at all pleasant — so here is a fine change.

“I suppose I ought to enjoy it while I can,” he says to the spring air. “Quiet moments such as these do not usually last very long.” And even as he speaks, a camellia crumples under his touch, delicate petals scattering to the breeze. An unreadable smile falls over Yao’s face.

A flash of movement catches his eye then, and Yao turns his head to see a splash of color resting on a peony bloom. He chuckles softly, and his smile gentles a bit.

“Hm, enjoying the scenery with me, are you…? So then. Is this myself I dream of but as a butterfly, or you dreaming yourself as a man?”1 he muses aloud and then approaches. One pale hand reaches out, and when the white-and-green insect crawls onto the first digit of his finger, Yao grins.

“My, but you’re a bold little one,” he says, amused. He lifts his hand to marvel at the gossamer butterfly. Thin bands of black-brown and green streak her twin-tail wings. They flutter, still glistening and damp; it’s clear that the butterfly has yet to fly.

“What a strange butterfly… You’ve just emerged from your cocoon, haven’t you? Such lovely colors might have gotten you caught by a bird or bat, but now here you sit fearlessly. Are you too young to realize that a being like me is most frightening of all?”

The only response he gets is a shy tilt of her head. Yao just gives a breathy laugh, unsurprised, curling his long fingers around the slender hand in his palm. The young woman who stands before him shimmers, luminous and resplendent with new life and 秀色可餐 _xiù sè kě cān_ (surpassing loveliness good enough to feast upon). Soft, fragrant silks in creamy white and pale green swathe her willowy form. Her hands are covered by long water sleeves of the old style. Black, black hair cascades to dainty feet, adorned with flowers that drip precious gems. Jade skin — still damp and so, so warm — forms a face as perfect as can be; her cheeks and lips are painted poppy-red, and Yao releases her hand to brush her hair back.

“But look at you,” he says softly. “Young as a freshly opened bud on the bough, though innocent as well, like a baby. I almost wish I could envy you.”

Her eyes are a radiantly rich black, shaded by long lashes, but wide and impudent with wonder at the world and at him. Flower-bud lips part, and her first words are lilting: “Even when I was young, no more than a simple caterpillar, I’d watched humans passing through the flowers like angels or giants. Yet none have ever stopped to speak to me — and you are a stranger as well!”

“I am, indeed,” says Yao to the butterfly. A note of amusement weaves into his voice. “Though perhaps I may turn out to be the mere dream of a young butterfly. What think you of that?”

The butterfly’s forehead furrows, wrinkling the plum-mark between her eyebrows. “If you are only a dream…” she speaks slowly. “Then I do not wish to awake. I would rather stay and speak with you.”

Yao’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise before he lets out an abrupt laugh. “Youth makes you bold, little one!” he snickers. “And suppose I suddenly become a nightmare. How then would you feel towards this one? I have, you know. I’ve become the nightmare of many in the past.” Something sinister creeps into his tone, and the edges of his black irises harden into glittering stones as he looks down his nose at her.

“I am not afraid,” is her reply, however. The obstinate expression she looks at him with merely steels the conviction in her words. Yao smiles at that, the cruelty in his eyes dissipating into a cool mildness. When he touches his fingertips to her neck, her pulse taps fast against his skin: hot and so very alive.

“I shall be going now,” he tells her. “I will not intrude on your dreams any further, little butterfly. Go and enjoy your brief life with the flowers, in my stead.” Yao does not say farewell, just pulls his hand back and turns.

At that moment a loud noise shatters the peace of the garden: sounds like shrieking and the clatter of plates erupts from the other side of the gate, accompanied by a guttural wail. Yao stops and raises an eyebrow.

“Hmph…a riot, is that what it is…? What trouble I find even in my dreams,” he says and sighs. There is a rustle by his ear, and with a surprised start he turns his head to spot the butterfly alight on his shoulder. Her splotched wings quaver when she perches there. After a second, Yao grins.

“Haha, such foolish fearlessness. So you wish to come with me, little one?”

The butterfly (in human shape again) looks up at him and nods once, stubborn. She stands close behind him, close enough to reach out and grab hold of his robes. The sweet perfume that infuses her body whispers around him, too. Half-aware of the action, he leans down to inhale it as she begins to whisper,

“Since the day I was born, I have always watched the humans who came to and left the garden. I hear strange sounds from outside all the time, and the birds always chat to one another about faraway places… The sprawling city of Chang'an, and the northern deserts that look like seas of gold; the eastern oceans that go on forever; the Kunlun Mountains in the south, where the immortals live… I hear them say even the flowers in this garden have different scent elsewhere!”

She looks up at him, dark eyes shining. “I want to go out and see for myself. This world… It is so much bigger than a garden.”

“That is true,” Yao concedes, tone thoughtful. “But it is far more horrible as well. There is darkness and cold…” His voice begins to trail off. Remembering. “Death and sickness…” So much to remember. “Everything that is ugly and abhorred… The outside world is full of them. Did you know, little one? That the humans have a saying: 花有重开日，人无再少年 _Huā yǒu chóng kāi rì, rén wú zài shàonián_ (Flowers may bloom again, but people will never return to being young).”

He smiles. It seems nearly a rueful expression.

“ _Aiyaa_ , little butterfly… If the humans who pine away their days in this world speak these sorrowful things…why, too, venture out into death and decay? Better to stay here, with the short time you have, in your perfect world of flowers and fragrance. Better to die here, where your new wings will grow old, crumble to dust and mingle with the earth, give life to new flowers, new caterpillars, new butterflies. Why give up your chance at contentment to go out into a harsh world like this?”

The butterfly gazes up at him. It’s almost strange how bright her eyes are; they spark with inner light, a determination that Yao already understands he will not sway.

“I won’t be afraid,” she says, and passes a sleeve by her cheek to glide her hair back. The gaze that peers up at him is firm and unblinking. Yao bites back another humorless grin. “Besides, my death is days from now. I have time to see more than I could ever dream of. I wish to go with you.”

Yao sighs through his nose but doesn’t say anything more for a long minute, just looking down at her. When she merely stares back at him, he exhales and extends a hand to touch her cheek. Long eyelashes brush his fingers as her eyes flutter closed.

“Your hand is very cold…” she murmurs after a moment, and Yao can’t help but crack a wry smile.

“Ha, I can’t really help that; I’m a lot older than you think,” he replies. “You’re also very warm… Ahh, but the young are just naturally like that, I suppose…so full of energy…” Yao draws his hand back and gives her a ghost of a smile.

“Hm. Very well. If that is what you wish, then you may come with me. But understand this: I will not be responsible for whatever we may end up encountering. If it is sorrow we find, and if your paper heart breaks from what we see, then so be it.”

The butterfly nods, her expression set and grave. “I understand,” she breathes, but Yao huffs a quiet laugh.

“No, you do not. You have not lived long enough to know sorrow. But…never mind that now. I suppose every moment counts from now on, doesn’t it? Come.” He gestures with one long hand for her to follow. “We shall go.”

“Yes,” she says and steps forward with a swishing gait. She flutters onto Yao’s shoulder (once again in butterfly shape), where she spreads her wings to the sunlight. Yao can’t help reaching up to cup his fingers around her, a pensive look on his face.

The man has grown up, surrounded by mortality, yet here may be the most ephemeral of all. It’s honestly quite strange when he muses on how he, the oldest of those near-immortal, holds one of the most fleeting of lives in hand. _An extraordinary concept, even for a spring dream…_ He says nothing on it, though; he simply turns and heads towards the outer gate. The round stones of the path press into the soles of his feet, a massaging sensation that seems vaguely familiar.

_It is only a dream. Composed of all the senses of the past. No matter how remarkable…_

From the other side of the gate comes a stench that Yao recognizes as something burning. In fact, many things are burning, a column of dark smoke curling into the pallid sky.

There is a hand that holds the back of his robes as he reaches out and pushes open the heavy gate doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am admittedly a rather big fan of APH China and the potential of his character. This fanfiction is, therefore, meant to be a reflection. China is one of the most fascinating Hetalia characters to me because of his deep, rich, and often bloody history — just because of how very _old_ he is. Five thousand years' worth of memories, both happy and sad... I want this to muse on that. I want to expand on the possible views he might have of mortality and immortality, humans and the inhuman, and so on. Oh yeah — also, a buuuuunch of Chinese lore is included as well. Hopefully, this will turn out to be an enjoyable and interesting read...! :3
> 
> This short story was heavily inspired by two books: _[Peony in Love](http://www.lisasee.com/peonyinlove/)_ by Lisa See, and _[Falling Leaves](http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/54529.Falling_Leaves)_ by Adeline Yen Mah. Both of them are great reads that I definitely recommend you guys check out!  
>   
> 
> **Footnotes:**
> 
> (1) Refers to the famous quotation by Zhuangzi: “Once upon a time, I dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was myself. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.”


	2. 喪葬  "Funeral"

Death is not a concept Yao is unfamiliar with; far from it, in fact. One does not live as long as he without soon coming to see death as an old acquaintance. Irritating, yes — but an acquaintance nonetheless. Which means that Yao recognizes the stench of smoke for what it truly is as it fills his lungs, acrid and charring; not an eyebrow raises at the sound of weeping and wailing that rings out, clearer on this side of the gate. He does not look at the wraithlike figures who gather there, however, instead frowning up at the gate where something else has caught his eye. From his side, the butterfly flutters out ahead of him, attention snared by the unfamiliar surroundings and by the figures in white. Perhaps she's never even seen fire before: her eyes are wide as she peers at the bonfire the figures huddle around, looking so utterly intrigued like a 人傑地靈 _rén jié dì líng_ (inspired scholar in an enchanting land).

Fifteen white paper slips sway in the wind, noiseless and grim along their length of wire. Yao's lips thin. He's seen such streamers enough times to know their meaning.

"What are those humans doing?"

Yao turns at the butterfly's puzzled question. Looking at the white-clothed figures, he notes with detached bemusement that they are, in fact, human. But for whatever reason (most likely the nature of this odd dream) they appear distorted, as if he views them through rippling water. Their features are blurred and indistinguishable, though the light of the bonfire clearly illuminates expressions twisted with grief. He glances sideways at her.

"They are mourning," is his simple explanation, punctuated with a shrug. "Look at these streamers. A girl of fifteen years has died."

"Oh…"

The butterfly frowns, looking caught between sympathy and mystification. Then the crease between her brows eases and she reaches up to tug on the wire string. The paper streamers billow with a leaf-like rustle; Yao watches them with an impassive expression before turning back towards the bonfire.

The heat is palpable, even from where he stands and despite the relative smallness of the fire. Tongues of red flame snatch at the spirit money the mourners toss in, devouring colored paper with greed. Cloisonné trays offering fruit and rice surround them: the ripe colors provide a stark contrast with this despondent setting. One tray has been tipped to the ground, sliced melons and taro spilling over the earth where bent figures (servants, no doubt, what with the clear wealth of this estate) gather up the mess in their hands. The reason for the mess is collapsed nearby as a heap of white robes with a woman's voice that sobs uncontrollably.

There is a long minute in which the two companions allow the woman's cries to fill the quiet. Both Nation and butterfly merely watch the funereal burning, then the butterfly moves away from the paper streamers. She looks up at Yao and he notices how her lips turn down.

"Maybe we can go and see?"

His eyes follow her pointing hand to the corner of the flowering courtyard. At once tight-lipped graveness cements into his expression. A coffin rests there in the corner, open to the air, carved from dark teakwood and polished to a solemn gleam. There is a figure lying within that he can just make out.

The butterfly receives no answer. Yao merely follows as she flits over to the coffin. The fragrance of the spring around them seems muted all of a sudden.

Perhaps it's because she looks even younger than he thought: Yao feels a lead weight press against his chest softly when he peers down into the coffin. Not much, but certainly more than he expects to feel at all. As the paper streamers indicate, it is a young girl who lies here, though they did not quite describe the porcelain-frailty of her body, the translucent appearance of her skin. Layers upon layers of longevity clothes wrap and pad her corpse in preparation for the afterworld — yet the hands that peek out from those sleeves are slim and limp, as if fitted with paper bones. Jewels adorn her wrists and neck, and in her hair nestle pearl and gold ornaments. She clutches cakes and thick wooden sticks as deterrents for the horrors of the netherworld, but they only emphasize the smallness of her hands.

A sheet of yellow paper conceals the girl's face. Yao does not try to remove it.

His eyebrows knit. It's not unheard of for the young to die, certainly not, but still, for a bud to wither before even approaching its chance to bloom remains hard to witness. So much potential, so much life — gone. Quick and simple, like a thought or a sigh.

But such thoughts are troublesome on their own. Exhaling, Yao turns and watches the butterfly for some time. Naïve as she is, she at least seems to understand death. A sorrowful expression lies across her features as she alights on the rim of the coffin. Her robes seem too bright against the dark of the wood, too colorful. With a soft sound, she blows the perfume of flowers over the dead girl's hands. She touches the blooms in her hair, plucks a blossoming hydrangea to tuck by the girl's temple. This goes on for a while until at last, the butterfly looks up at Yao again. Her wet eyes clash with his cool, dry-eyed gaze.

"Why do the humans burn paper so sadly…?" comes her soft question. A scoff and then a wry smile twists at his lip. Of all the things she decides to ask, she chooses the one about the spirit money and not the corpse beneath her.

"For her," he says, gesturing to the dead girl with one hand. When the butterly only stares at him with an uncomprehending look, he sighs, elaborating. "If you must know… Humans say that when a person dies, their soul splits into three. One part stays with the body, to rest in the coffin or wherever the burial place is." She peers down at the girl at that with a surprised expression, as if trying to see that soul. Yao smiles just a little.

"The other two parts go on separate journeys. The first will roam and then enter her ancestor tablet once it is dotted, and will be worshipped and honored with the rest of her dead family. The last, however, goes on to be judged. To the afterlife. She will need that 'paper' and so they burn it for her." He states all this in a calm voice, as though reciting a bland script.

She blinks and glances at him. "There is life after?"

That question makes Yao pause. For a long moment he simply stares at her, then shifts his gaze to the dead girl. Colored string winds around her legs and waist, probably put there by the women of the household, to keep her body from leaping about as her souls roam. A fresh spring breeze strokes the flowers in the coffin, stirs at the paper covering her face. With an unreadable expression, Yao reaches out to hold it still. He looks at the butterfly.

"I wonder, sometimes."

That is all he says. The butterfly tilts her head but does not press for more. Instead, she asks, "Will they…burn her, too?"

A noncommittal _hmm_ escapes him in reply, and he tips his head back to gaze up at the clouds. "Some humans do with their dead. Others bury them, return them back to the earth they believe they come from. With this one… I don't know what they plan for her." There is a moment before a dark smile crosses his face. "Ha… 眼不見，心不煩 _Yǎn bù jiàn, xīn bù fán_ (What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't worry about). You can say it is their way of coping, yes? Of dealing with what is inevitable. Putting death in a nice little box and tucking it away where no one has to see... 'Dust to dust' is but a small part of it, I think."

The butterfly sighs at his bitter tone and frowns at the ground. A thought flickers through Yao's mind that she and the dead girl appear rather alike.

"A butterfly?"

Yao lifts an eyebrow while the butterfly jumps, startled by the white-robed figure standing near them. This close it's a little easier to pick out certain features: the thin silhouette of a woman, the shadow of long hair, grief shading the face like a personal twilight. The figure shivers like a mirage but she faces the butterfly on the coffin, apparently able to see her.

"Oh, butterfly, why do you come now?"

A shuddery moan issues from the white figure and she hunches, barely holding herself together in her grief. Yao just stares at her with eyes narrowed, and the butterfly's eyes are locked on her as if under a spell. The woman sees the butterfly but not him, then?

"Long life you promise, warmth and joy — but what of that matters now?" she is murmuring, perhaps half to herself. "Make good on what you are supposed to promise. I do not care that you are not a crane, but speed her on to the netherworld safely, nevertheless. Ah—" The woman shakes her head, bowing. "Joy and life and love… Seeing you only brings me closer to tears. Farewell, farewell. Speed her on."

With that the woman meanders off, white robes brushing over the ground: the train of a ghost. The butterfly stares at her receding form. Seemingly unaware of even doing so, she drifts closer to Yao's side as he watches in amusement.

"What did she mean…?"

He chuckles. "Poems and superstition. To humans, you butterflies signify most of what is good in life. Longevity, joy, love… Things of that sort. I suppose she is the mother of this dead girl or something like that. Either way, seeing you only reminded her of what the girl cannot have and so grieved her further. Though I'm not quite sure how you are supposed to carry out that charge of hers."

"I take this girl to the…to ' _after_ '?" the butterfly says slowly. Yao lifts one shoulder in a dismissive shrug.

"I suppose. But like she said, you are no crane with access to the heavens. Shall we move on? There seems little else of interest to us here," he sighs, turning. The butterfly trails after him and her lips part as if to say something, but then her gaze lowers to something before them and the color drains from her face. Sensing her alarm, Yao whips around, dark eyes icing over into black slivers.

The dead girl stands before them, though her body remains in its coffin. Wide childlike eyes stare at the two; her cheeks are painted white and azure kingfishers and willow leaves tremble across the fine gauze of her longevity clothes. She looks from the butterfly to Yao, whereupon those eyes become frightened and she leaps back with a shriek. She throws spirit money at him then turns to run.

"餓鬼 _Èguǐ_! (Hungry ghost!) Get away!" The girl may have fled if not for the butterfly, who jumps out to block her path. Her long water sleeves are held out in a gesture of placidity.

"Don't run! Don't be afraid! We are not going to harm you," says the butterfly. The girl stops, shaking with fright as she looks at them. Yao huffs a bit; it seems like it's more because they'd trapped her against the walls of the compound than because the butterfly appears particularly comforting.

_"Hungry ghost," hm…? Ha, well, that's not quite far off from what I have been called._

Indeed, that is a fairly tame name for one who has been called a demon.

"He has no shadow…"

"What?"

Yao looks up to see the girl pointing at him fearfully. Her skirts pool around her feet and, raising an eyebrow, he notices that she doesn't cast a shadow either. The butterfly, however, throws a tiny shadow on the ground beneath her.

"W-What is he but a ghost, if he has no shadow?" the girl whispers, wiping at her cheeks.

"He is a very nice man," the butterfly replies stubbornly and moves so that she blocks Yao from the girl's view. (Yao has to grin to himself at that. A nice man? Him?) "And I am here to bring you to after."

The girl slowly raises her eyes and gazes at the butterfly's human shape, slim eyebrows knitting. She glances back and forth between Yao and the butterfly. "…A…butterfly? But I thought it was cranes who carried souls to heaven…"

"A lady of your household asked this one to escort you personally," Yao speaks up at last. He folds his arms across his chest and lifts a brow at how the girl cringes at his movement.

"饥不择食 _Jī bù zé shí_ (The starving can't choose their meals). Either you accept us as guides or go alone. Or perhaps you prefer to travel the netherworld by yourself?" The man gives her a once-over, dark eyes cold and sharp as arrows. The girl sidles away from the needle points of his gaze. "You must have died recently, if you have yet to roam so far. Ah, no… You are afraid, aren't you? A girl like you, sequestered and frail… Even living, you've never wandered far from your rooms. Forty-nine days of liberty, of free reign to roam, yet you remain in your home."

She musters enough courage to glower at him. "I am not brave or bold, but I was happy in my silk rooms and frost gardens. Besides, I want to watch over my family like this for as long as I can."

Yao just smiles. "Hmph. As you like. What is your name, girl?"

"It is…" she begins, then falters. He almost laughs: even in death she strives to be filial and civilized, balking at giving her name to a male stranger.

"Come, girl. I am no hungry ghost, no evil spirit — though many might disagree with me. Give me your name, else I have nothing to call you but 'girl' from now on."

The ornaments in her hair tinkle softly as she turns to frown at him. Rosy lips press together before she relents. "It is 霞 _Xiá_ (Daybreak)."

"阿霞 _Ā Xiá_ ," the butterfly echoes, adding a term of affection to her name and so bringing a smile to said girl's face. Powdered cheeks dimple, and for a moment wonder flits across Yao's mind at just how young she truly is.

But the thought quickly dampens, like a candle put out. She is just one of many, after all. And, when he looks over at the butterfly as she smiles back at Ah Xiá, he realizes she is, too.

Yao tucks his hands into his sleeves and sighs.

A clatter rings out behind him. Turning to glimpse over his shoulder, Yao observes a servant-figure chase after a rolling platter. Bean cakes and ceramic bowls of rice splatter over the ground.

He narrows his eyes when he notices that the spirit money Ah Xiá had thrown at him has vanished. Then his gaze flicks upward, where a tattered shadow scurries away through the arc gate.

His skin prickles with cold.

_Hungry ghost._


	3. 地獄  "Hell"

One block down Yao's street lies a head shop, tucked between a run-down grocery market and an apartment building. Yao had only been in there once, when his back pains felt particularly bad and he didn't feel like walking or driving six blocks over to the medicine store he preferred. The head shop had been small and ill-lit; the air was heady with mixed herbs and incense smoke from the altar in the corner. Someone had propped an electric fan on the counter where it sat whirring back and forth, barely stirring the stiflingly hot air. From behind the counter, the muted sounds of a television issued from the other room. Some Chinese soap opera was on.

An old woman shuffled out as Yao sifted around for dipsacus and Sichuan achyranthes. Her back bent as though unseen weights pulled her shoulders down, and her hair was like a cloud, wispy and snowy white. A thousand fine lines creased her face, the rice-paper-frail skin of her hands.

Yao remembers feeling vaguely amused when he looked at her. What fraction of his age did hers make up? A hundredth of his five thousand years? Or a thousandth? Or perhaps, not even remotely close, just a flicker that would vanish before he could even glance over. The thought made him feel abruptly exhausted.

The altar in the back housed hand-size statues of several different Buddhas; Yao recalls gazing at them wearily as the old woman fumbled to give him his change.

So it is this Yao muses on — the red and gold of those Buddhas' faces, the dim glow of burning incense — while agonized screams fill the suffocating air, and the hideous laughter of demons pierces through the dark. A nether creature whose head spills with horns shoves by Yao roughly. It pauses and turns to leer at him, hissing between needle teeth, then goes to join the others' fun. Yao grimaces at its back, irritated at the unpleasant jerk back to reality.

This is the first level of the afterworld: the first of seven. And just as is expected in a dream, Yao can't recall how they even got here.

(He doesn't miss how, ironically, the horrific faces of these demon bureaucrats are colored the same reds and golds of the altar.)

Ah Xiá and the butterfly stand near him, the young girl ashen-faced and trembling. Her fear of him was quickly drowned by terror of the acid-faced demons instead. One passes with a cackling bellow, and she pulls back against him with a fearful sound. Yao's eyes flick down at her, mildly annoyed, and he heaves a great sigh before placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. She flinches and looks up at him but he just stares off at the head of the line. It's much shorter now; there isn't that many people until Ah Xiá's turn. Behind them stand so many others. Women, men, children, elderly — and all with terrified faces as they await their turn on the Weighing Bridge.

"How much longer until our turn, I wonder?" he mutters. But as if in response, the people ahead of them begin to move forward, ushering them to do the same. The demons shrill in laughter and a whip cracks, to which a guttural scream echoes.

"What are they...still doing?" the butterfly whispers, wings fluttering his shoulder. Yao glances behind him, and the butterfly peers back, lips taut with fright. "T... That man... He was heavy..."

Yao sighs. Just minutes ago, roaring demons ushered a man onto the scales which the sins he'd committed in life caused to plunge several meters. No time was wasted in administering punishment. With the utmost relish, the demons demonstrated for the man his first taste of what awaited him: those waiting in line whimpered and looked away as they skinned him alive. But Yao had worn a look of indifference, even as he silently reached out to turn the two girls away. No need for _them_ to watch, after all.

Yao, on the other hand, has witnessed these kinds of things often enough.

(But with that in mind, he has to wonder if there's truly any difference between these demons and the humans they inevitably punish. Ha. What a thought.)

"Just don't look," he says now, watching the man's body be restored so he could be sent off shaking and sobbing hysterically. He'd actually frothed at the mouth, a sight as pitiful as it is horrendous. But the demons simply laugh at him and call out for the next person in line. Yao exhales slowly. "Don't watch them."

"P-Please..." He glances over at the sound of her voice. Ah Xiá stares, her eyes fixed on his chest but not seeing. "I don't want to talk about this."

A quiet scoff escapes him, despite himself. "Oh? Then what exactly would you like to chat about, Little Miss?" he asks, a sardonic note to his voice. Ah Xiá cringes back at the condescending tone he assumes. Yao frowns — very well, perhaps that _was_ a bit unnecessary — and then sighs. "Come," he says, this time somewhat gentler. "If you want to speak of other things, I am not unwilling to do so."

But one of the demons overhears, and suddenly rancid heat crashes over Yao's face as the red-skinned creature laughs, a nauseous stench like charred and rotting flesh. His face twists in disgust and, without a word, he discreetly eases himself between it and Ah Xiá. The girl seizes his robes, so utterly terrified she doesn't dare even look up. Out of the corner of his eye, Yao sees the butterfly land lightly on her shoulder.

A raspy, gurgling bellow issues from the monstrous demon, and it takes Yao a moment to realize it's talking. "Speak of other things! Hahaha, yes, do so! Speak of life and joy, O ghost!" jeers the demon in delight. A yellowed tongue spills out between its teeth, red saliva dripping with an acidic hiss. Yao pulls back in revulsion and the demon waves its claws tauntingly. Its eyes fixate on Ah Xiá, who stiffens under its eager gaze. She looks caught between screaming and turning to run.

"Ah, is this the Little Miss who died?" the demon questions, lowering its voice to a honeyed croon. The thing leans forward and crooks its multiple fingers, and Ah Xiá whimpers, burying her face in Yao's back. "Is this the little dead girl? Ha, _ha!_ How many sins have you committed, girl, eh? What worthless offerings were you given? How scrawny you look, no fun at all!"

It smacks its lips, and Yao tenses at the realization there are globs of flesh caught between its teeth. He feels Ah Xiá shudder, her cheek pressed to his spine.

"Go away," she whispers, near-inaudible. "Go away, go away." Somehow the demon hears and only lets out an earsplitting laugh. Yao grits his teeth at the sound.

"Best hope your family stuffs you well! You'll need it if you land in one of our hells! Now let's see... You can't possibly be 一塵不染 _yī chén bù rǎn_ (not contaminated by a single speck of dust). So what might've a pretty girlie like you done...? Maybe eloped? Disrespected your elders or husband? Oh, maybe you died in childbirth. Ha, send you right to the Blood-Gathering Lake, _hahaha!_ "

"That's quite enough."

The demon's laughter cuts off. Abruptly. Bulging eyes zero in on Yao, who just smiles calmly and holds out an arm between the creature and its prey.

"This escort job is taking a lot more time than I expected, and you're being quite a bother. It's irritating. So why not do _your_ filial duty as well and torture those who really deserve it?" he asks in a cool tone, though ice leaks into his gaze until he's glowering at the nether beast. The demon snarls and glares down at him; it pulls itself up to full height, leaning down over his head so that needle teeth bare inches from his eyes, and burning saliva drips onto his cheek. His skin chars and cracks, but Yao's eyes merely narrow.

And then, just as suddenly, it freezes.

The next time it laughs, the sound fills the void.

" _HAHAHA! HAHAHAHA! You! You!_ " it screams, dancing back with savage thrill lighting its fire-eyes. " _I know you! Look, look, hahaha, look's who's here!_ "

As it screams, the other demons begin to flock around, equally annoyed and curious. Yao bristles at their sheer ugliness: festering skin, burning hooves, melted faces, iron fangs, clawed fingers with too many joints. And that hunger. The sadistic, eager hunger in those eyes.

These things want nothing more than to inflict agony. That much is clear.

"Look at it! Look at it!" shrieks the red demon, jabbing at Yao with a too-long finger. "See it, brothers! Look upon it and recognize!"

Another demon with eyes oozing pus and clutching a bloody rapier steps forward. It cocks its head at a disturbing angle and squints. Yao gazes back evenly, though his lips press together in a taut line. Those blistered eyes widen, and the demon roars in shock or glee.

"仙人 _Xiānrén!_ (Immortal!)" a garbled voice yells. "Immortal!"

The demons go mad: they shriek and laugh and rush forward to grab at him. Yao hisses under his breath and jerks back, still shielding the two behind him. The newly dead stare; in confusion and uncertainty, Yao can sense. After all — an immortal? Here at the Weighing Bridge with them?

_Ha... They must think the gods are laughing at them._

How pitiable they are...

Before he can react, however, a voice booms through the darkness. Deep as a lowing ox, resonant as a tiger's roar — and blazing with fury like a storm of hellfire.

"WHY HAVE YOUR DUTIES BEEN NEGLECTED? RETURN TO YOUR STATIONS NOW!"

A violent shudder travels down Yao's spine while the entire void goes flat-out silent. For the first time since their arrival, Yao sees the demons show a trace of fear. Eyes widen until white rings their jaundiced irises, bulging in horror as they scramble back to their posts, tripping over one another in their haste. But it's too late. Around him, ghosts scream as two shadows materialize from the darkness, a thousand _li_ tall and a thousand _li_ wide. Metal rings jangle around the crosspieces of a pronged spear and spiked mace, held tightly in fisted hands. Tongues of fire blaze before their mouths as, with absolutely no mercy, the two guardians of the underworld rip apart those demons unfortunate enough to have not made it back in time.

"LET THAT TEACH YOU TO ABANDON YOUR POSTS."

A different voice this time, higher-pitched and ringing but no less furious. The two guardians loom over the frightened dead like mountains. Inhuman eyes glow with blue-red-violet fire, and they scour the line as if searching for something. Hundreds of dead humans cower or plead for mercy under the searing gazes, but the figures pay them no attention.

Somehow, Yao is not surprised when their eyes freeze on him. Behind him, Ah Xiá holds onto him tight. The butterfly stands right beside her, pale-faced but solemn, unwavering.

"YOU HAVE NO PLACE HERE, IMMORTAL. GO BACK TO THE REALM OF THE LIVING WHERE YOU BELONG," both guardians boom, voices swelling and filling the void like the knelling of mammoth temple bells. Yao just smiles. With utter calmness he folds his hands into his sleeves, looking at both of them evenly.

"Well, well. I have imagined our meeting many times, 牛頭 _Niútóu_ (Ox-Head) and 馬面 _Mǎmiàn_ (Horse-Face). You are as impressive as I thought. Might I ask how His Majesty the Emperor fares?"

"HE-WHO-LIVES-FIVE-THOUSAND-YEARS HAS NO BUSINESS WITH THE EMPEROR OF THE DEATH REALM," is the brusque reply provided by Horse-Face. Both guardians appear with the immense bodies of armored generals, painted with bright blood and brimstone, differentiated only by their weapons and — of course — grotesque heads. Just as their names imply, a monstrous head with curving horns rests on the neck of Ox-Head; meanwhile Horse-Face has the proud but terrible skull of a wild stallion, mane tangled and matted around his shoulders.

The guards of the underworld leave little to the imagination regarding just why they're so feared.

Earthquake-like pounding from Ox-Head's pike draws back Yao's attention. "WE WILL GIVE NO FURTHER WARNING," he bays. "LEAVE NOW, OR ELSE SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES."

Yao sighs and shakes his head. "Ah, well... I'm quite afraid I can't do that."

 _That_ certainly displeases them. The guardians' roars explode against his eardrums in rage. Yao grimaces but manages to remain upright; most of those in line are either knocked over by the force of the cries, or they collapse from sheer horror. Ah Xiá shrieks and grips at his back.

"What are you doing?" she whisper-shouts at him, eyes wide and conflicted with both indignation and fear. "Don't make them _angrier!_ "

He simply smiles at her, the gesture a cryptic one. "Unfortunately, I've promised my guidance to this little one here," he continues addressing the guardians and motions toward the butterfly with one hand. She stiffens when their gazes burn into her, holding her head higher despite how the color drains from her skin. "Who, in turn, has been charged with escorting _this_ young one," Yao goes on, angling his body so that Ah Xiá can be seen. His eyes narrow and he smirks at them.

"Surely an escort counts as an offering. My presence is, likewise, nothing more, nothing less. Would you not agree?"

Ox-Head and Horse-Face merely stare, threatening growls rumbling deep in their chests. Ah Xiá keeps her gaze steady in spite of how she trembles, Yao notes with a note of admiration, which he hadn't expected her to do. Not bad for a delicate sequestered flower.

"THEN WE SHALL ESCORT YOU TO HIS MAJESTY OURSELVES. THE LIVING CANNOT WANDER IN THE REALM OF THE DEAD," declares Ox-Head with a slam of his wicked pike. He bares massive fangs as he speaks, flames flickering around his powerful jaws.

In tandem Horse-Face whinnies and swings his mace up to his shoulder, adding on, "THE BALANCE OF HEAVEN AND HELL WILL BE UPTURNED IF DEMONS TAKE A STILL-LIVING SOUL BY MISTAKE, OR IF THEY ARE REINCARNATED BEFORE THEIR TIME. WE WILL GO TO ENSURE YOU DO NOT STRAY FROM THE PATH."

"Understood," replies Yao, calm as ever and smirking. "It is appreciated." The guardians do not reply; they slowly turn to face the minor demons still crawling by the Weighing Scales.

"THE GIRL GOES NOW. WEIGH HER."

The demons screech and lurch forward. A multitude of others appear from the dark to replace those who were killed. They surround Ah Xiá where they dance and jeer, calling her names and yelling about how they'd love to saw her in half and hammer nails into her eyes. She whimpers and takes a staggering step forward, quailing at the demons' attention. But the butterfly comes forward with her, and when Ah Xiá stumbles, she takes the girl's hand and leads her to the scales. Yao studies her tight-lipped expression.

The two of them pause before the scales, closely dogged by a legion of snickering nether creatures. Ah Xiá stares at the huge bronze platter before her, then casts the butterfly a fearful look, then Yao. He gives her a frown in response, but before he could gesture for her to hurry, the girl squeezes her eyes shut, inhales, and leaps onto the scale.

It tips.

There's a moment in which Yao's heart seems to halt.

The scales tip — but only a few feet or so. Yao exhales quietly; of course she wouldn't tip them so much. Ah Xiá died too young to have accumulated that many misdeeds. She was not lighter than air, which would've meant she was truly virtuous, but whatever sins she'd committed had been minor. Relief washes over her face and the butterfly's. The girl staggers off of the platter and falls against the butterfly, who supports her as the demons hiss around them.

Yao glances up. Ox-Head and Horse-Face are already moving forward, towards the bridge extending into the shadows.

"THEY SHALL PASS."

The demons standing guard shrill even as they make way. The white bridge curves off somewhere into darkness. White — a suitably inauspicious color, Yao notes dryly, but he merely sighs and catches up to the two girls.

The butterfly glances up at him, and they exchange a long look.

"GO."

There is impatience growing in their voices. A dangerous sign.

With slow, tentative steps through the billowing shadows, the three of them cross the Weighing Bridge. The humans in line begin to stir, realizing that they are going on ahead. To Yao's surprise, they start to scream. They start to plead. Beg. Implore to come with him.

(Of all people, he wonders why they think _he_ could help them.)

"Xiānrén _, take us with you, please,_ xiānrén _!_ "

" _My sons, O immortal! Take them with you, too! Take them, I beg you!_ "

" _Have mercy on us! Please, have mercy...!_ "

He crushes his eyes closed and sighs wearily as a whip cracks again, the sound wet this time, and the screaming becomes fearful and agonized once more. Demons laugh and taunt as the coppery stench of blood wafts through the air. But Yao doesn't look back. The guardians of Hell follow close at his heels, and a sound like clapping thunder denotes the sealing of the void behind them. The first level of the afterworld — passed.

Yao ignores the screams that issue faintly through the air behind him, which fade to nothingness after a few seconds.

Silently, the butterfly reaches over to brush his hand with hers, but he doesn't look at her, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am fully convinced that China, with his long and ancient existence and his having witnessed so many atrocities through his lifetime, has come to very particular conclusions regarding the afterlife. That is, part of him believes (or at least wants to do so) in Heaven and Hell and reincarnation; yet another part sneers and wonders if all of humanity does not deserve to burn forever — himself included.
> 
> Which brings us to why he appears so calm before the guardians and demons of Hell in this chapter: China has honestly resigned himself to a doomed afterlife. I think that because of his cynical nature, he holds doubts that such a _human_ being like him could possibly deserve to enter Paradise, especially with all the horrific deeds he has committed with his history. How could he be allowed into Heaven when his hands are so tainted, even as (or especially because he is) an immortal? Chinese lore tells of the Immortals to be great sages, wise but heavenly; they are above the sinful natures of Earth.
> 
> But China is immortal yet worldly. He is both of Heaven and the exact opposite of what Heaven wants. He is bloody and terrible, sad and passionate, and — worst of all — he is so utterly _human_. He fears. He hates. He loves. He mourns.
> 
> Which afterworld, therefore, does he most deserve to be sent to?
> 
> Thus, China greets death and ultimately the sadistic beasts of Hell as future friends. Who knows: they very well may end up being so.


End file.
